


To Shear Sheep

by anti_ela



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: A chubby little angel bean, Academy Era, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Kelvin Timeline (Star Trek), M/M, Minor Character Death, Musician Spock (Star Trek), Nerd James T. Kirk, Oblivious James T. Kirk, Professor James T. Kirk, Professor Spock (Star Trek), Set on the AOS timeline. It's a tangle of canons., Slow Burn, So he is a soft boy, Spock is Captain, Spock is a TOS/Disco mix I hope?, Starfleet Academy, Tarsus IV, Trying to write Jim a few years removed from being a bullied little nerd, Vulcan is Not Destroyed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: "Yeah," Winona said, looking into the eyes of each admiral in turn. "You're gonna change the rules about families on ships, or the miraculous Kelvin baby and I will make sad noises at the press. You wouldn't want them to have to see their precious Jimmy cry, now, would you?"
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 27
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warnings for the prologue:  
> \- Oblique references to rape and abuse  
> \- Discussion of different timelines in which children die
> 
> Winona's characterization was pretty much stolen from "One Foot in Front of the Other" by lazulisong, which you can and should read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104254

In countless splinter universes, Jim Kirk dies in the womb, or in the shuttle, or on the long ride home.

The ambassador lives with the knowledge that his t'hy'la died because of him. The death should be no heavier upon his psyche than any Romulan death, but the hollow in his katra is vast, and the bond at the back of his mind is gone, gone, never to be.

The ambassador pities the commander, or he envies him, or he never knows: sometimes Nero kills Spock on sight.




The best way to solve a problem is to start with the basics. Before you take apart a bulkhead, check the power. If it’s on, move on to the next step. Simple, logical, effective. That was Win Kirk’s specialty. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much use when grounded and roped into teaching aspiring nerds, a point she had made repeatedly to the brass for the past year.

That was why, when an unfamiliar young man in Academy reds knocked on her door, she wasn’t entirely surprised.

“What’s your name, son?” Win asked as she rose.

“Pike. Cadet Chris Pike, ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand while she approached. “The admiralty asked me to, ah, escort you.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “You’re an earnest son of a bitch, aren’t you? Well, let’s go see the old men.” So saying, she strode out of the room, and the cadet jogged to catch her.

Now, George, George had been diplomatic. He was charming, soft-hearted, and philosophical. She’d loved her big teddy bear of a man. Still did, really. Probably would until the day she died.

A few steps from the meeting room, she said, “You command track, Pike?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing the door handle, “don’t ever do this.” Then she opened the door and swept into the room.

At a glance, she saw Chandra, Komack, and Lui seated on the other side of the table. Not the worst possible crowd.

“Admirals,” she said, saluting. After they acknowledged her and the kid, she slipped into one of the open chairs.

“You have submitted thirteen applications in the past eleven months,” Lui stated. “Recently, the openings have not even been for your specialty.”

“I think I’d make a fine yeoman,” Win said dryly.

Lui continued, “Each application has had attached one stipulation. You have been accepted to every posting, with the exclusion of this stipulation.”

Win turned to Pike and winked. “I’m wearing them down.”

Komack leaned forward. “Our position has not changed, Kirk.”

Chandra glanced at Komack, then looked at Winona. “While we sympathize with your maternal desire to be near your sons, Starfleet cannot make exceptions. Our ships are not designed for families; we cannot expend energy on nonessential persons.”

Win smiled and said, “Computer, how many times has Starfleet used Acting Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Commander Kirk, and/or James Tiberius Kirk in their promotional materials?”

Komack snapped, “Computer, disregard. That means nothing.”

“Does it not? I’ve never seen your dead husband’s face on a recruitment poster,” she said.

Lui shifted and said, “Again, we sympathize, Kirk. It must be hard — ”

Winona interrupted, “What’s hard is being grounded for being a mother — something I thought we’d stopped punishing women for in the twenty-first century.”

Chandra frowned. “It is not for being a mother, but a…”

“A Starfleet widow?” Win said sweetly.

None of them answered.

"Yeah," Winona said, looking into the eyes of each admiral in turn. "You're gonna change the rules about families on ships, or the miraculous Kelvin baby and I will make sad noises at the press. You wouldn't want them to have to see their precious Jimmy cry, now, would you?"

She leaned back in her chair and rested her head in her hands. After a short internal debate, she crossed her legs at the ankle instead of setting them on the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Pike duck his head and cover his mouth with a hand.

Komack frowned. "Kirk, you're just an engineer. Replaceable. The public will forget about you in time."

Win leaned forward. "James — can I call you James? — what I am is hot, tragic, and charismatic. The fact that I'm one of the best damn engine monkeys in the fleet is secondary to the fact that I can make Starfleet look bad without fucking trying. And you know what else I can do, James?" She gave him the smile that had reeled in George all those years ago. "I can make Starfleet look damned good."

Lieutenant Commander Kirk walked out of the room with an assignment on the second-contact specialist USS Abdi and a two-person bunk to herself and the rascals. Not bad for a woman who still cried herself to sleep some nights.




In some splinter universes, Jim lives without love for longer than human beings can bear without damage. He cannot recognize it when it is before him; he cannot accept it when it is offered to him. Still, he craves it, as the husks of desert plants crave water.

Some ambassadors arrive in time, and some do not, and sometimes someone else loves Jim without reservation or expectation, and sometimes no one does.

When Jim is loved, he blooms.




After 2.32 hours of waiting on the stone bench, Spock believed that he had prepared for his father’s arrival. Every known fact had been reviewed, and every possible argument and counter-argument had been made. Sarek would require an accounting of Spock’s reasons; based on past experiences, he would likely not be satisfied with them.

Watching his father traverse the hall with his measured strides made Spock lower the probability of his success.

Still, he must attempt to make himself understood.

He began with what seemed to be the strongest defense. “They called you a traitor.”

“Emotions run deep within our race," Sarek said smoothly. “In many ways, more deeply than in humans. Logic offers a serenity humans seldom experience. The control of feelings, so that they do not control you.”

Spock hesitated, then said, “You suggest that I be completely Vulcan, and yet, you married a human.”

“As ambassador to Earth, it is my duty to observe and understand human behavior. Marrying your mother was… logical.” After a pause, Sarek started, “Spock, you are fully capable —”

“Stonn called ko-mekh a whore,” Spock said.

Sarek’s eyes drifted to Spock’s bruised cheek. “As I stated,” Sarek said slowly, “Vulcans feel deeply. Logic assists us, as well as Surak’s other principles. Among them is respect for life, the right to privacy, and infinite diversity in infinite combination.” He paused again. “If your peers are struggling to master their emotional responses to your differences, it is better to bring their failings to the attention of an elder.”

“Yes, sa-mekh,” Spock said.

Sarek stood and looked down at Spock. “As one of your parents is aware of the scope of this incident and you have been chastised, it is unnecessary to inform the other. We will seek healing before returning home.”

“Yes, sa-mekh,” Spock said.

As they walked down the corridor, Sarek said, “Describe the extent of Stonn’s injuries.”

As Spock answered with medical precision, the tension in his side eased. He had not noticed it; he would have to be more aware of how emotions affected his body in the future.

“Stonn is taller and older than you,” Sarek stated.

“Indeed,” Spock said.

“Fascinating. Stonn is, biologically, fully Vulcan. One wonders what effect this will have upon his father's xenophobia,” Sarek said.

A small thrill shot down Spock's spine at this overt insult; he would meditate on this moment later to ensure his future behavior was not overly influenced by such pleasure. "They seem weak to confirmation bias," Spock said. "I anticipate no alteration."




In some universes, Sarek tells no one he loves Amanda until he is dying and Amanda is long dead. In some universes, Spock never knows if his father feels at all.




Jim settled onto the small ledge connecting three Jefferies tubes, hooked his feet into the topmost ladder rung, and cracked open his book,  _ What We Owe to Each Other. _ It was one of the last as-yet unread books he had inherited from his father. Since it was on philosophy, he had left it late on the reading schedule, as he had not felt mature enough at seven to grasp it. Now seemed appropriate, as he was twelve and preparing for his bar mitzvah.

Also, Dr. Clinton had put a dissection on the biology schedule for the day. While it was a replicated body, it still made him sad: the species had gone extinct two decades after the original specimen was added to the biological library of Earth.

He could take a zero for today. It's not like he wouldn't be learning something.

With that thought, he wedged himself snugly into the corner and began to read.

Several hours later, his comm chirped. "Chief Engineer Kirk to youngest brat Kirk. Come in, youngest brat."

Jim fumbled for the comm. "Hi, best mom Kirk."

"Yeah, that won't work. Get the hell out of the tubes and eat something," Winona said.

Jim grumbled off-air then replied, "Mission accepted, roger, over."

"My name's Winona, not Roger," she said.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Haw haw. You're funnier every day. Be grateful no one else listens to this band." He unfolded himself, tucked his comm into his belt and book into his bag, and started down.

"I'm a solo act, not a band," she said.

He paused, hooked an elbow around a rung, and commed back. "Everything you say is the worst, just so you know."

"That's my job, Jimmy-jams. Mom out."

Although he could reach the mess from the tubes, it took three times as long, so he dropped into the deck corridor and made his way to the turbolift. Jim greeted everyone in the hall by name and ended up on the ‘lift with Ensign Guillermo Ramirez, a new comms officer they’d picked up on a rendezvous with the Farragut.

“Hey, Kirk,” Ramirez said. “Where are you off to?”

Jim grinned up at him; something about the man was just so cool. “Hey,” he said, grabbing one of the handles. “Mess, please. How do you say ‘let’s have a lovely picnic’ in Klingon?”

Ramirez instructed the ‘lift and raised his brows. “You have a net friend or something? Going to meet a nice mini warrior at the next starbase?”

“Maybe so,” Jim said loftily. “But I can’t if I don’t know how to ask for a picnic, and how to compliment their delicate ridges.”

Ramirez coughed. “Yeah, don’t call their ridges delicate, my friend.” The turbolift dinged, and Jim stepped off, waving stupidly. Ramirez rolled his eyes as the doors shut.

When he entered the mess, he swept the room for signs of his family. The gray of Sam’s uniform caught his eye, and he strode over to where his mother amusedly watched Sam stab his food with a fork.

“Are you old enough for angst yet, Jimmy?” she asked.

Jim ignored her. “Hey, Sam. Want me to get you anything else?”

Sam grunted, then tossed his fork down. “What I want is to get out of this fucking tin can,” he said.

Winona’s face grew somber. “I know, kid.” She sighed and gestured to Jim. “Sit down, would you? That’s actually something I’ve been talking about with your Grandpa Tiberius.”

As Jim settled, Sam straightened. “Really? We could go live in Iowa?”

“The fact that that excites you worries me,” Winona said drolly. “But, no, Grandma and Grandpa are moving to a new colony. It’ll be a largely agrarian lifestyle, but the main towns will have bio labs focused on terraforming, genetic engineering, stuff like that. Plus,” she added, leaning in conspiratorially, “I heard there might even be other teens there.”

Jim looked into Sam's face. His brother was transformed; he hadn't seen such delight in years. "That sounds great," he said softly, missing the stars already. "When can we go?"




Tarsus IV is a dead world before humans reach it, or it is already colonized, or they colonize it and it is a utopia, or they colonize it and the fungus kills them all, or it does not kill them but Kodos leads a revolt and fails and many colonists still die, or Kodos leads a revolt and succeeds and kills half of the colonists. Jim dies in infinite ways on Tarsus IV, or he does not go, or he lives but hoards food, or he lives but fears guns or dogs or men or sex. He often lives and hates himself.




The director of the Expeditionary Group stood before Sarek, tall and serene. "In honor of your position and reputation, I will accept one of your not-quite-Vulcans."

Sarek blinked and shifted his feet, as if the ground had altered itself beneath him. "You ask me to make an impossible choice," he said. He straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders. "Moreover, it is illogical to deny entry to any who meet the requirements. If it is the decision of the Expeditionary Group to accept only one member of my clan this generation, I will bring your offer before the members of it."

The director raised an eyebrow. "Are you not the head of your family?"

"T'Pau is the head of my clan," Sarek said. "Regardless, I do not own my children, and therefore I cannot decide their futures."

"T'Pau would be able to choose," the director said.

"Then it is good that I cannot be clan matriarch. Perhaps my human wife will fare better than I, should my mother die young." Sarek raised the ta'al. "Live long and prosper."




Sarek chooses Michael, or Sarek chooses Spock, and he lies or does not lie, and neither or both of them join the Vulcan Expeditionary Group. When he chooses Spock and Spock chooses Starfleet, Sarek sometimes does not speak to his son again.

Sometimes, Nero calls out to a Vulcan officer of the Enterprise who never joined Starfleet, and the bridge is often silent for several seconds in response.




Amanda paced the length of the room, her scarf and robes billowing behind. Every time she turned, the force of her movement was enough to cause her scarf to brush against the walls. Occasionally, she stopped and turned to Sarek, but then she resumed her walk without speaking.

Michael, Sarek, and Spock were still and silent before her. Amanda's fury burned in the back of Spock's mind, but he doubted that Michael, who had no familial bond with her, had trouble reading their mother's mood.

When she stopped at last, it was before the western window. The setting sun burned away her soft human edges and limned her in red.

"When you asked me to straighten your hair," Amanda rasped, "I straightened it. When you asked me not to touch you in public, I pulled myself back. Michael, Michael…" Amanda walked toward Michael, holding up her shaking hands. "No objective, logical reason exists to deny or exclude you. Michael-kam, no such reason has ever existed! And Spock, of course, my beautiful son. But that they would see the first human graduate of the Vulcan Science Academy and reject her based on species is reprehensible." Amanda knelt at Michael's feet and reached for her hands, but Michael folded them together in her lap. Amanda bowed her head. "Please hear me. You are not wrong or lacking. Neither of you are."

"My wife," Sarek said softly.

Spock turned to Sarek in time to see him fold gracefully to the floor. Amanda looked at him, brown eyes shining, and extended two fingers to him, which he met.

"We raised our children on Vulcan in the Vulcan tradition because of my miscalculation," he said solemnly. "I was raised by the honored T'Pau, who recovered Surak's katra with the help of humans. My elders told me stories of my ancestor who extended his hand to Zephram Cochran. As ambassador, I observed multiple virtuous, competent humans." He paused. "The bias is clear to me now. Because I am acquainted with your species' strengths, it seemed logical that, in time, all who knew my children would learn of them."

"Please don't kneel," Michael whispered.

"We beg forgiveness," Amanda said.

"We have wronged you," Sarek said.

Spock could not move or speak. If he could, it would not matter, as he had no plan for either action.

A horrible, twisted sound escaped Michael, then came again, again, again. Her face crumpled, her spine bowed, and she began to rock. With every sob, her body shook. 

"Ashayam, you did so well. I'm so proud of you," Amanda said.

His sister who never cried was crying, his parents were petitioning his sister for the forgiveness of a grave sin, and he was just sitting there, sitting there, sitting there.

"I could serve in Starfleet," Spock blurted.

Sarek turned to him.

Unable to stay seated, Spock stood. "Michael could serve in the Expeditionary Group, and I could serve in Starfleet. We would both be firsts."

Amanda said gently, "Spock…" 

"N-no," Michael said. "I am n-not w-working for him! I did everything right!" Her hands darted out to clasp Sarek's shoulder, Amanda's hand. 




Sarek gives up the dream of Spock's perfect Vulcan life, or he does not. Spock meets or appears to meet Sarek's standards, or he cannot pretend, or he does not try. Amanda stays with Sarek, or she leaves with both of her children, or only one, or neither. Michael rarely stays, although she often loves them all, even to the ends of human endurance. 

(In some universes, Sarek does not use the human Michael as living proof that the half-human Spock can be Vulcan. Sometimes, even, he does not greet his newborn son with the comment "so human." In these universes, Sarek has fewer problems in general.)




In this universe, Jim and Spock join Starfleet a few years apart. While Jim studies, Spock serves in Captain Pike's science department under the direction of Michael Burnham. Jim graduates, and his years on the Farragut overlap with Spock's first year teaching. Jim returns, and, at last, they meet.

As always, this meeting changes both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim pulled at the hem of his Academy blacks as he looked over the room. Earth in a Pre-Federation Galaxy was a straightforward course, but the large class size made Jim nervous. Why he felt more anxious teaching history than he did on the bridge was a mystery, but he hoped it would fade soon.

"Does anyone have any questions about the reading or the assignment?" he asked. 

The cadets shifted and glanced around, but no one spoke. Considering the time, they probably didn't want to start one of his rambling class discussions. That was the usual comment he received: talk less.

But there was so much to teach, and so little time, and everything was connected to everything else. How can you explain the pressure constraining the members of pre-Federation Starfleet without detailing the technological limits of warp engines, and how most funding of the time was devoted to Vulcan-assisted efforts to reduce the effects of climate change? And when that led to thoughts about eco-agricultural advancements and how polyculture farming reestablished habitats for many species, well, it wasn't altogether surprising that his syllabus and lectures failed to resemble each other.

He did try, though.

"My office hours are available in your syllabus, and feel free to message me! Have a pleasant day," he said, dismissing them.

Jim hovered by the desk until the room emptied, then let his shoulders slump. Visions of cascading failures presented themselves: unclear essays, failed quizzes, increased absenteeism, continued silence. His smaller classes were doing well, but he felt as if he wasn't connecting with the sixty souls who just left.

What he needed was a mentor.

While he thought about that, he gathered his things in his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the room, straight into a tall black pillar.

"Ope!" Jim said, reaching out automatically to steady the person. "I'm so sorry; I wasn't looking where I was going."

As his eyes traveled up the stranger's lean form, he noted the jade tips of their fingers, the warmth radiating into his hands, the points of their ears. He blinked, and the bearded Vulcan before him quirked one eyebrow.

Blushing furiously, Jim dropped his hands, stepped back, and then raised his right hand again in the best ta'al he could muster. He was the most stupid man alive. "Sorry," he choked out. "Um, live long and prosper."

The Vulcan, who must be renowned Commander Spock, returned the gesture. "Peace and long life," he said. Spock's voice was so deep and resonant that Jim had a vision of resting his head on Spock's chest while the Vulcan read a book aloud.

"I'm Lieutenant Jim Kirk. Are you Commander Spock?"

Spock nodded.

"Oh," Jim said, then smiled. "Well, it's fortunate that we met. I'm a new professor, and I hear that we're kind of opposites when it comes to teaching styles. Do you have maybe a free hour or two sometime this week when I could ask you a few questions?"

Spock shifted into parade rest. "I do not anticipate having any 'free time' for the next three weeks." Somehow, even with his nearly-inflectionless tone, he managed to set the colloquialism apart.

_ Cute _ , Jim thought.

"Would it inconvenience you if I gave you my contact information? That way, when you have the time and inclination, you can contact me." He ducked his head slightly and looked up at Spock through his lashes. "My experience with Vulcans is limited, so please let me know if that's culturally inappropriate."

Spock tilted his head. "In what way is professional collaboration inappropriate?"

Jim swallowed. "It would be forward to Andorians, particularly if you were a member of a quad," he said.

"We are not especially similar species," Spock said.

Jim laughed. "I guess not. Can I assume that your fancy eidetic memory will remember me? That is, my comm address?"

"Affirmative," Spock said.

With that, Jim gave Spock his information, raised the ta'al, and bid him good day. 




Spock watched the human walk away for 3.1 seconds, and then he turned and continued to his classroom.

Complete heterochromia iridum was more aesthetically pleasing than its asymmetry suggested. The single point of coolness provided by Lieutenant Kirk's left eye only complemented his overall golden tone. If Spock were to apply Kirk's eye cosmetics, he would choose a shade of green to marry Kirk's hazel and blue eyes. Copper and violet would be interesting, too.

Spock blinked and dismissed the vision.

He wondered, briefly, if he would be less distractible if he were teaching his interests. While Starfleet had no better instructor for Golic Vulcan or the Romulan dialects, he was a scientist. Teaching humans largely-unpronounceable languages seemed pointless. The Survey of Galactic History was a dull recitation. They had wanted "a Vulcan perspective," which had seemed reductive at the time. Now he suspected that the survey course was an onerous task assigned to the staff member least likely to object.

How he missed research.

What is, is. After the Enterprise was finished, he would once more explore the universe and encounter new natural phenomena and life forms. Additionally, his time at the Academy was not entirely dull. The rote nature of his courses allowed him plentiful time to read journals and verify the results of others' research; being granted lead on the Kobayashi Maru offered insight on nearly all upper-level cadets.

Moreover, a few cadets were rewarding to teach. None moreso than Cadet Uhura, the pride of the communications department. Although humans lacked the anatomy that enabled the many of the sounds required by Vulcan and Romulan forms of communication, she already approached his mother's level of mastery after only two years of study. She was an able codebreaker and technician, and she had cross-trained as a navigator. Any crew would be improved by her addition.

She was also kind, patient, and observant. When she was near, Spock's awareness of his otherness lessened, for he knew that she would help him express himself.

He was unsure what she sought from his company, but he hoped he provided it.

Spock walked into the lecture hall at exactly 0930 and shut the door behind him. "Today, we will finish our review of the history between the Orion and Klingon peoples. Using the objective data from the past two weeks and your knowledge of current events, can anyone extrapolate how a modern Orion captain might react to the appearance of a Klingon ship?"




Before Jim entered Captain Pike's office, he smiled. He liked Pike, always had. Chris was something between a father figure, an older brother, a family friend, and a superior officer.

Feeling his face tighten, he relaxed his muscles and smiled a few more times until it felt natural. Only then did he knock.

When Pike called him in, he entered with a salute. Chris rolled his eyes and indicated the chair; Jim sat.

"In a few weeks, I'm taking the new class to see the Enterprise," Chris said. "We'll be in the time of the semester when they need to be reminded of why they signed up. For some reason, seeing her tends to do it."

Jim smiled. "I would imagine so."

"That's why I called you." When Chris smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled. It was one of the reasons Jim's crush had been so hard to shake. "Thought you might like to see Iowa, the old Riverside haunts, if there is such a thing." 

Jim shifted in his chair, smoothed out the frown he could feel. "Thank you, but I didn't spend much time there," he said softly.

The moment Chris understood was clear on his face. "Oh, kid," he said.

Jim stood. "Sorry, sir. I hope you have a safe trip."

Chris released him, and Jim escaped.

His stomach gnawed at him, curled around his spine, crawled along his nerves into his brain. It lived there along with all of his other souvenirs from Tarsus IV.

He became aware of his location outside of the mess.

He ran a hand through his hair and tugged on his uniform. He pressed the back of his hand against his cheek. Warm, but not sweaty. Probably looked normal.




The message from T'Pring was unexpected. 

To delay speaking with her was illogical. The time of day on Vulcan was, for one as young as her, not a necessary consideration. He had no other appointments for the afternoon; even if he did, their previous conversations were not overlong.

Still, he meditated before calling her.

Once her face filled his screen, he raised the ta'al.

"Greetings, T'Pring," he said.

"Greetings," she said. "You have noticed how quiet the bond is and has been."

"Indeed," he said.

"You must have some theory to explain it," she said, "but in truth I have blocked your mind from mine. I have parted us as much as the link would allow from almost the moment of our joining."

Spock, who had long assumed that the bond was quiet due to his own failings, merely raised an eyebrow.

She pressed her lips together, then continued. "When we were children, did you wish to marry me? Did you imagine drinking tea with me? Waking from sleep with me?"

"No," he said, "not you specifically. When I survived the kahs-wan, when we were bonded, I felt relief. Before then, it was unknown if my nature would allow such things."

"I considered it," she said, leaning forward. For the first time, her speech quickened. "I thought of it often. Living in your father's house, sleeping in your bed, from the moment of your first time until death parted us. It is true that you may never experience the fires; or you may do so, but later in life even than your father. It is also true that yours may come early." The knife edge of anxiety was not unknown to him, but to see signs of it in T'Pring was alarming. "Every day brings me closer to bondage."

"I am listening," he said softly.

"Do you know how I may release myself, Spock? Death alone," she said. "Someone's death: yours, mine, my champion's. How should I choose? Logically? What is logic to the old ways, which have always been fire and blood and lust?"

"I do not know," he said.

"You were never cruel to me, Spock," she said. "I would prefer not to be cruel to you, but I would be. To be free, I would do many things. I have considered them all. Even, for a time, I believed I preferred Stonn to you, for he is simple and easily biddable. Then I imagined his face, his touch, every day until I die—it was the same." She looked into his eyes for a moment. "To have you in my mind is a violation. To have Stonn in my body is a violation," T'Pring pronounced. "Do you understand, Spock?"

He blinked. "I suspect I do not," he said. "However, it is something you know well. As the endangered party, betrothal bonds can be broken by males, correct?"

Her face relaxed into its beautiful mask; her body resettled into perfect posture. "Yes," she said.

"You have made greater study of this subject than I," he said. "What are your suggestions?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I hope you and your people are safe and well.
> 
> Gary Mitchell is his creepy self here, but his part in the story is small. There will be no sexual violence in this fic, but there are references to it having occurred in the past.

Once the replicator filled Jim's order, he breathed out. The chicken sandwich: fried, breaded, replicated breast meat on a slightly-toasted white roll. Served on the same blue plate as always. It looked and smelled right; the plate's heft was right. Say whatever you like about your mom's cooking, for Jim nothing could beat the consistency of Starfleet replication.

He turned to the room, looking for a spot. Movement drew his eye to Cadet Gary Mitchell who stood waving in his direction. Jim glanced around, but no one else in line was looking at Mitchell; it must be him. He nodded to the cadet and walked over with his head slightly ducked.

Were staff allowed to eat with students? None had ever eaten with him, but then he was even shyer as a cadet. Chris would have, but he'd been shipside. Surely eating was acceptable; his superiors had dined with him on the _Farragut_.

"Professor!" Gary said once Jim was close enough. Jim looked up and smiled at the cadets, then sat in the empty seat next to Gary. "Do you know my friends? Nyota Uhura, communications, knows more traditional songs in alien languages than I know in Standard. Gaila Vro, computer science, once hacked Starfleet because chain of command ignored her security suggestion. Christine Chapel, biomedical research, was published in a scientific journal at sixteen and has only become cooler since then." They all waved at him in turn. "Ladies, this is Lieutenant Jim Kirk, professor, and—little known fact—the man they designed command gold for. If you think he's charming in black..."

Christine interrupted wryly, "Don't let Gary fool you. My teen publishing credit was an 'et al' situation, sir."

"Learning songs helps to learn languages," Nyota said with a smile.

"I'm exactly as awesome as described," Gaila said, leaning forward. "Some say I'm even better."

"Enough about you," Gary said loftily. "Doesn't anyone want to compliment me?"

Gaila winked at Nyota, then said sweetly, "You could be much worse."

Christine nodded. "Your hair is brown."

Jim cocked his head. "Treachery, my fellow blonde? So soon?"

Gary leaned over and murmured in Jim's ear, "Apologies, sir. Had I but warned you of her nature…"

Jim flushed and shifted slightly. "No need to apologize, cadet," he said, trying not to break the atmosphere but wanting out nonetheless. "As long as you let me eat, anyway."

Gaila looked between them, then tugged on Gary's arm. "Mitchell, how do I update my resume? You've introduced me to the last four people the same way."

Nyota leaned forward and fluttered her lashes at Gary. "Same here. Don't you admire anything else about me?"

While Gary talked to the other two eagerly, Christine tapped on Jim's arm. She mouthed, "You okay?"

He nodded and mouthed, "Thank you," then looked down at his still-untouched sandwich. It was less exciting now, but he had never wasted food before. He ate bite after bite, mostly listening. Toward the end of the meal, he chatted a little more. Nothing consequential, but it was nice.

Once he was done, he stood. "It was great to meet you all," he said, picking up his plate.

When Mitchell stood, he was a few inches taller than Jim. At this distance, Jim had to look up to meet his eyes. "We're going to the same place, aren't we?" Gary said pleasantly.

How could he argue? Yet the walk to the recycler had never seemed so long; no one's gaze had ever felt so heavy.

Well. Not for a long time.

And that was different; he was safe. He was an officer of Starfleet, a professor of the galaxy-renowned Academy. He was surrounded by witnesses; he could hold his own; he was safe, he was safe, he was safe.

"Have a great day, professor," Gary called behind him as he walked out of the mess. Jim lifted a hand but said nothing.

San Francisco's skies were blue and clear. He closed his eyes and lifted his cheeks to the sun. Somewhere beyond the atmosphere, his next ship was flying, waiting for him. This time on Earth was limited; this assignment, comparatively, was short. Perhaps he would never measure up to the instructors and professors he had admired over the years, but he was not a little rabbit anymore. Mistakes led to improvement. Failure guided the way forward.

He would do his best.

And if that best did not yet include a method of handling people like Gary Mitchell, well, that's not what he was hired for anyway. 

Jim's communicator chirped. Another automated message from the medical center. He left the message unread in case they had read receipts on and started the walk to his office, dreaming about what he would eat for supper.

His pot roast reveries were interrupted when several students ambushed him with questions on a recent lecture. They were from his smallest class, so he knew each by name. When he was asked one question, he asked another; as needed, he guided them to new ideas, revealed the flaws in their logic, and suggested further sources to explore.

What he loved best, though, was when they helped each other. In those moments, walking quietly in the midst of awakening brilliance, he felt joy.

They walked far beyond his office, but he didn't mind. He could visit later.

Another chirp from Jim’s communicator interrupted the impromptu class. "My apologies," he said as he checked the display. A smile bloomed on his cheeks: one of the engineering professors wanted him to assist them with a matter of honor. He excused himself from the mass of students and nipped to the engineering building, aware of the unprofessional bounce in his step but unwilling to correct it.

In the command branch, he was George’s son; in the science department, he was Dr. Kirk’s brother. To outsiders, he was the Kelvin baby. To engineers, though, he was Jimmy—you know, Winona’s boy?

To them, he had grown up in the background of comm calls, a buoyant and intelligent child who listened to any tale they shared with rapt attention. He knew almost every senior engineer who had served in Starfleet over the past twenty years by face if not by name. Although he had only been on campus for three weeks, he’d been invited to their department for increasingly-specious reasons eight times. It always brightened his day.

Once he arrived, Lieutenant Panagopoulos and Commander Goh ushered him in.

"Took you long enough," Goh said. "You won't believe what this idiot's said this time."

"Yes, because it is a most elegant and beautiful solution," Panagopoulos said. "Unbelievable genius. You will weep."

They argued happily for hours before Jim excused himself. "The papers won't grade themselves," he said. Then he bashfully added, "And it's finally my turn with Admiral Forrest's journals."

Goh rolled her eyes. "Command. You're all the same."

Jim smiled, gripped their arms, and bid them good day.


End file.
